In the May 1927 issue of Farm Life magazine appeared a humorous story by Charles Doughton, about a rich city man and his family who decided to try the simple life as farmers. What follows is a highly edited account of their adventures.
I never farmed but once, and if the fates are kind, never will again! I’m a city man from the asphalt up and I inherited a successful company upon the death of my father. I’m the president of the company, which has something to do with mining, but I let the board of directors attend to the details of running it, as they weary me.
Last winter, the wife and kids began talking of spending a summer “getting back to nature,” and all that stuff that women think of, and, in a weak moment, I told them okay. So the wife rented a small farm, and we were going there to be regular farmers for the summer. She had even engaged a hired man named Boggs to start things going before we got there.
When we got to the farm, the women were delighted with everything. Mrs. Boggs had fixed dinner and, while it was a good meal, everything was just set on the table, there was no one to pass anything, and we had to do all that ourselves. When we went to bed, it was so quiet you could hear your hair grow, and I couldn’t sleep a wink.
Mrs. Boggs agreed to stay on as cook, because my wife was afraid she’d forgotten everything she ever knew about it, and Lila, my daughter, couldn’t do anything but make fudge.
After a few days, things seemed to be running pretty smooth, when my wife took a notion to raise chickens. There were a few around the place, and she hoped to soon have a lot of little chicks. She fixed up some nice nest boxes, lined with tinsel and crepe paper and decorated with ribbons, nice enough for any hen. She put eggs into the nests and chose several of the largest and healthiest looking chickens to mother them. Well, those birds wouldn’t have anything to do with the thing, they stood on the eggs and made omelets of them, then strutted off, with an offended “cock-a-doodle-doo.”
Wife sat down and cried as the brutes wrecked her lovely nests and was about to give up, when along came Mrs. Boggs. After a severe choking spell when she saw the result of my wife’s labors, she suggested starting the hens herself, to which my wife agreed.
Next day, cook had fixed up some old wooden boxes filled with straw that weren’t half so nice as the ones wife had made, and her hens were much smaller than those wife had selected. However, we let it go and, a few weeks later, found that they knew their business, as they came from their nests, each with a fine brood of little ones.
Wife at once took full charge of them, as she said she had read exactly how to care for little chicks. They did okay at first. Then several died, followed by others at an alarming rate. Mrs. Boggs asked my wife what she was feeding them, and she answered that she thought the hens were still nursing them. Cook had another of her choking spells (I am really sorry for her) and asked that she be allowed to feed them.
I think both Mr. and Mrs. Boggs needed to see a doctor about their frequent choking spells. He seemed to have one every time I made a suggestion about the work he was to do around the farm. I remember he nearly died of suffocation when I wanted to know how many times he had to plow the wheat before it was ready to harvest, and when the pears would be ready to dig.
I had supposed that I’d be able to supply the table with succulent vegetables fresh from my own garden, but the seeds I planted did poorly. All I had for my hard work was a number of spindly plants where I had expected cabbages. They grew higher and higher and I never could find any proper cabbage heads. Finally, some little round buds grew along the sides of the plants and wife and I decided they were small cabbage heads. We picked a bunch of them and gave them to cook to fix for dinner. After another of her choking spells, she managed to tell us that we’d have cabbage for dinner. We did, but it looked nothing like what we’d brought in from the garden. Later I overheard cook and Boggs laughing over something about hollyhocks.
Lila, our daughter, anticipated a great collection of wild flowers, but after several expeditions to find them she gave it up as a bad job. She had gotten into poison ivy, been stung by bees and nearly frightened into hysterics by a blacksnake. I could see she was ready to give up the “back-to-nature” idea and return to the city, as I had since the day we arrived.
Boggs and his wife took the day off to attend a funeral, and Truman, my son, and I decided to hitch up the buggy and take a ride. Well, that harness had so many buckles, snaps, and loops that we could find no use for, but we finally got things connected and climbed into the buggy, except for Lila, who stayed home to make lunch.
Everyone we met had something to say about my “bellyband” and I noticed a wide strap hanging loose, but thought nothing of it. We started down a long hill, and then the buggy ran into the mare’s rear causing her to turn sideways. The buggy upset, and we all flew out. The mare plunged ahead dragging the buggy, which soon came loose, and she went on home, leaving us to walk. When we arrived, hot, sore and bruised, all Lila had for lunch was a plate of fudge and a number of burned fingers.
My wife said, “How long will it take you to pack up your things?”
“Have you had enough of the simple life?” I asked.
“If you mention simple life to me again, I won’t be responsible for what happens,” was her answer.
Sam Moore